


The Dragon in Her Head

by cotton_prima



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst, F/M, Intrusive Thoughts, Self-Destructive Impulses, being the hero and dragon in your own story, fearing your own capacity for violence but also weaponizing it, robin-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27923902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cotton_prima/pseuds/cotton_prima
Summary: something’s wrong something’s very wrong something’s wrong wrong wrong
Relationships: Frederick/My Unit | Reflet | Robin
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	The Dragon in Her Head

The fissures in her mind were growing deeper.

When Validar had called to her, he dislodged whatever barriers she had that kept the world out. Now Robin’s mind stood open—a house with the doors taken off their hinges. The wind blowing through her.

The intrusions were quiet at first. Chanting whispered in an almost recognizable cadence. Half-formed thoughts that scattered like mist when she tried to understand them. Snatches of color and light.

They did not stay quiet for long.

She stood over a map as Say’ri showed her and Chrom the roads they would need to take to the Mila Tree. In the middle of discussing cavalry formation, a hot pain knifed through her head. Robin’s grip tightened around the wooden pointer in her hand. She imagined vaulting over the table between them and plunging the pointer’s tip into Chrom’s eye. It would take only a second.

_“Robin?”_

Chrom spoke as if under water.

A splash of red upon parchment. The pointer clattered off the table and onto the ground. Robin covered her nose with her hand, and her palm came away bloodied.

“I’m fine,” she said, as much for her own benefit as for her friends’. “I’m alright.”

In the back of her mind, someone laughed soundlessly at her.

The dreams increased in frequency and intensity. Chrom lying dead on a stone floor, his blood redder, his face paler. Ylisstol burning and the ruined castle strewn with the corpses of soldiers. A darkened sky, a thousand upturned faces offering themselves to her. Again, and again, and again.

She did not wake from such dreams fitfully anymore. Perversely, waking brought disappointment. A deep longing for the violence she had dreamt. Though these feelings faded within seconds, they disturbed her far more than any dream could.

“Up again?”

Frederick’s voice was clouded with sleep.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She heard him sit up next to her on their bedroll. His hand found hers in the darkness of the tent, and she felt the weight of his head against her shoulder. He did not ask about the dreams anymore, and for that she was grateful.

They sat up together, breathing quietly until the night began to disperse.

“Morning,” he said, kissing her hair.

“Morning,” she confirmed.

Robin learned to live with the open connection. She had little choice. The Valmese campaign wore on, claiming more and more casualties. Whatever was peering into her mind and the threat it posed was secondary to Walhart. So the dreams came, as did the occasional flashes of unfamiliar sensation, the aggression that simmered beneath her every action. At least that she could channel into the war effort.

“You need to sleep,” Frederick reminded her. He stood at the mouth of her tent, his armor doffed for the night. “If all goes well tomorrow, we may meet the Voice herself.”

“And it’s my job to make sure it all goes well,” she replied.

In truth, she had prepared no strategy for tomorrow’s ascent to the Mila Tree. She had maps. She had information from scouts about the area. But she couldn’t sustain a coherent thought about the Mila Tree or the Voice. Each time she tried she was overwhelmed by a sense of perverse glee. They were actually going to enlist the scion of Naga to further their little war! Their whole excursion was the height of comedy!

The feeling was unnerving and almost certainly not her own. But Robin did not want to sleep yet. Even as her thoughts slipped from her, she felt sure that she could pull them back if she tried a little harder. Just a little more, and she could block those feelings out, if only for a moment.

For the first time, the person (if it was a person) on the other side was nervous.

“Robin,” Frederick said. “You need rest.”

Anger filled her like hot lead. She was so close, _so close_ to quieting her mind! Why did he insist on getting in her way? Why _wouldn’t he just disappear?_

_You don’t think that_ , Robin reminded herself. _Those are not your thoughts._

“I’ll come to bed in a little while. I won’t be much longer.”

Frederick nodded, satisfied for the moment. He withdrew from the tent, and Robin was finally alone.

_But you aren’t, are you? Not really. Not anymore._

The Mila Tree was even more than Robin had imagined. Grand in a way even Ylisstol could not match. She didn’t need to be told it was holy ground—she would have known immediately. She felt dizzy, almost nauseous, as if a strong wind would carry her away.

“Robin, your nose.”

She accepted Frederick’s handkerchief and wiped the blood from her upper lip.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll wash it for you.”

“There’s no need for that. I’m better at getting out stains anyhow.”

“And you’re so humble about it, too,” Robin teased. He chuckled, and she felt a surge of desperate rage. She tamped it down.

“There are Valmese soldiers ahead waiting to ambush us,” she said. The words came so matter-of-factly that she was hardly surprised. Frederick, however, was.

“What?”

“Mostly infantry, but we can expect Pegasus Knights as well.”

She began to jog. She needed to get this news to the front of the column. Frederick followed, matching her pace easily.

“We had hardly enough time to scout the area,” he said. “How on earth do you know that?”

How indeed? The knowledge had come as suddenly as her nosebleed. It felt not like a prediction, but a memory. She had done this before, hadn’t she? But that wasn’t an answer she could give.

“I know because it’s what I would do,” Robin said instead. She couldn’t tell if he believed her, but he didn’t ask any more questions.

The battle went smoothly, all things considered. Without the element of surprise, the Valmese forces were robbed of their most important advantage. Still, Robin processed the victory in a daze. It felt real, but redundant. From her perspective, they had won the battle before it started. It was a simple but tedious thing to win against mortals, like swatting so many flies.

But people were not flies. Though they were enemies, Walhart’s army fought bravely, and it brought her no pleasure to spill their blood on holy ground.

_Ridiculous. They were in my way._

The Voice was sleeping when they found her, and Robin could not keep her heart from pounding. For a goddess, she looked so vulnerable. Weak. But she would aid their cause, the Voice, Tiki, assured them. She spoke with the weight of centuries. It was difficult for Robin to look her in the eye.

“You have it,” the Voice told her. “Your power is like mine.”

Her words turned Robin’s stomach.

“I don’t understand.”

But she was afraid she might.

“I’m sorry about this.”

Her words were blotted by the handkerchief pressed against her nose. Again. For the third time today.

“Don’t be. Keep your head forward, please.”

Robin sighed, but did as Frederick asked. It helped him to fret over her. It made him feel, at least, like there was something he could do. So she let him crouch beside her and apply pressure to her nose, even though it demeaned both of them. She let him try to comfort her.

“I think it has stopped,” he said after a few minutes.

“Good,” she said, checking her scrolls for blood. “Then I’ll be able to make that meeting after all.”

“Robin, shouldn’t you…”

“Shouldn’t I…?” she prompted when he did not complete the thought.

“Shouldn’t you see someone about this? Maribelle, or perhaps Libra?”

Robin almost laughed in his face. It was a cruel impulse. He did not deserve that. All he did was love her. She pretended to rifle through her scrolls until the meanness in her settled.

“I did see them,” she finally said. “I have seen every healer in this camp. They said there’s nothing physically wrong with me.”

How neatly they had spoken those words, how carefully they’d parceled out the syllables. Like their inability to help might utterly break her.

They didn’t know what she was.

“Could it be a curse?” Frederick pressed. “Perhaps Tharja—”

“I’ve already talked to her. She said that nothing has changed about me.”

What she’d actually said was that there was no darkness within her that wasn’t there before. Whatever that meant, it was neither comforting nor informative. Clearly, Frederick thought the same. He didn’t look relieved to hear that she wasn’t hexed.

“I’m worried about you.”

Robin nodded. That made both of them.

Whatever had gotten into her head, it seemed to harbor a particular aversion to Frederick. The intensity of those feelings only grew as the days passed. Sometimes, just being near him made her dizzy with aggression. Like being in love, she thought sarcastically. Like grief.

It complicated things. Kissing him now risked nosebleeds, and even when he touched her with the utmost tenderness, she felt capsized with sorrow. But despite the trouble, or perhaps because of it, she wanted him sorely.

“Frederick.”

His name shimmered on her lips, though that might have been the wine. She didn’t care much for the taste of alcohol, but she appreciated its gauzy veil. A few swigs had bought her peace of mind. She rarely got to feel alone with her husband anymore.

He was kneeling, unpacking their bed rolls and blankets from a trunk. All night she had wanted to touch him. She had waited through supper, the walk back to their tent, and the long minutes it took for him to remove his armor. Impatient for his attention, Robin laid herself over their half-spread bed roll. She reached out and tugged at his sleeve.

“Frederick,” she cooed again.

“Robin, please. I’m trying to make our bed.”

She sighed. Frederick was a proper man, and she loved that part of him. But he could be particular about the strangest things. Like making a bed before sleeping in it.

“It’s made enough.”

“But it’s cold.”

“Warm me up, then.”

He glanced at her, interest heavy in his eyes. It had been awhile.

“You’re eager tonight.”

“For you, yes.”

Even he had his limits.

“Then I suppose this can wait,” he murmured, closing the trunk. He lowered himself over her, and she laced her arms around his neck. He smelled like hay and smoke.

_Stop._

His lips were and clumsy in the tent’s dim, but she was hardly better. It felt good to fumble, to feel out the other’s pleasure like this. He got his hands under her clothes, and she sighed. His were the gentlest hands she knew.

_Don’t touch him._

“You’re beautiful,” she told him.

“Turn over,” he said.

She did, shivering as he urged her coat off. He kissed her between the shoulder blades, then began to unbuckle her pants.

**_STOP!_ **

The pain was blinding, like being caught under the wheels of a speeding cart. He was sprawled on the ground, his armor and chest torn open, eyes dull with death. His blood was in her mouth, choking her with its thick sweetness.

She didn’t realize she had been screaming.

“Robin? Robin, what’s wrong?”

Frederick was holding her face. Frederick, who was alive and in once piece.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “Did I…did I hurt you?”

He was shaking, she realized. He was scared. Because of her.

Her response emerged as a breathy whimper, so she shook her head. No, no, he hadn’t hurt her. _She_ was the one who knew what his entrails tasted like. She had thought it was real. It had felt real. 

The breath rushed out of Frederick. He leaned back, withdrawing his hands from her face to cover his own.

“Gods,” he muttered. “Robin, I thought…”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. She sat up and touched his arm, grateful that he didn’t flinch from her. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

His words were rubbed flat as river stones. He was trying so hard. He always tried hard for her, and she could do nothing for him.

“I’m alright. Really.” She was not. Her head was pounding, and she couldn’t shake the image of his corpse from her mind. But she could pretend. She would pretend until it became the truth or something close to it. In a practiced gesture, she let her fingers trail lightly down his arm. “We could continue? I can handle it.”

“No.”

“But I can—”

“I cannot.”

Even he had his limits.

Robin let her hand fall away from him. For once her mind was completely quiet. It only made the silence of the tent all the more unbearable.

“Let’s just sleep,” he finally said. She nodded stiffly, but there was no need. He was already putting out the lamp and lying down on the half-made bed. After a few minutes of sitting in the dark, Robin joined him.

The sheets were cold.

“Something’s wrong with me,” she said into the darkness. He was sleeping and didn’t respond. She hadn’t wanted him to. She had only wanted to tell him, not for him to hear. It felt good to say, the words velvety in her mouth. And yes, it was a terrible truth. But it was hers.

_something’s wrong something’s very wrong something’s wrong wrong_ _wrong_

The boy had a round face and soft eyes. A shock of brown hair. Cowlicks. Wearing a coat the same color as hers. Same stitching, too.

He called her “mother.”

Robin should have been more surprised. Lucina had told them about the other children from the future, but how did one prepare to meet one’s future son? And yet he was immediately familiar to her. Of course he was hers. He always had been.

Morgan. A beautiful name.

_Mine._

Was this motherhood, then? This love sudden as a geyser piercing stone? He was younger than the other children, but already tall, his limbs lanky with new height. She would die for him, Robin thought. No, she would _kill for him._ _Split heads for him._ As many times as it took.

Those were her feelings, weren’t they?

“He doesn’t remember me,” Frederick told her the evening after they’d found Morgan. It grew dark quickly up north, and the sky was hemorrhaging its last light. They were on patrol together, combing the ruins for any risen remaining from the band that attacked their son.

_Not your son. **Mine**._

Robin pinched the bridge of her nose. She’d had a simmering headache all afternoon. No nosebleeds at least, and she’d been able to work through it, so it wasn’t so bad, right? The rush of finding Morgan had buoyed her through the day. She felt as if her entire body were radiating light and blood. She felt like she could accomplish anything.

“He may remember in time,” she suggested. And though her claim was baseless (she hadn’t even recovered her own memories), in that moment, she believed it. Time had delivered Morgan to them, hadn’t it? Perhaps his memories were simply slow in catching up. But Frederick shook his head.

“I’m afraid he doesn’t want to give it time. He seemed distressed.” His frown deepened, and Robin felt a twinge of sympathy. Or was it irritation? It was hard to distinguish the two lately. “I did not know what to tell him. I…Perhaps he doesn’t remember because I was not a good father to him in his time. Perhaps there were things he did not want to remember.”

For a moment, Robin faltered. She hadn’t considered that his forgetting might have a meaning. That it might have been a choice.

Had it been that way for her?

_For the best._

“I’m sure you were, and will be, a wonderful father,” Robin finally said. She took his hand in hers, ignoring the scream of pain that flashed through her head when she touched him. “I’ll talk to Morgan. See if I can convince him to be patient, one amnesiac to another.”

That seemed to reassure him. Or maybe he was pleasantly surprised to hold her hand. They rarely touched casually anymore. Either way, Frederick relaxed.

“Thank you, Robin,” he said. He closed his hand around hers. “He looks a lot like you.”

Robin smiled. Her head throbbed.

Against the odds, the war was won. Aided by the strength of the dynasts’ armies, Robin had watched the Valmese forces crumble to her formation, _their blood spilling across the castle cobblestones_. _How efficiently they perished. What genius for death we were._

The Shepherds had crossed blades with Walhart himself. He was a lion of a man, truly living up to his reputation. But they had worn him down together and emerged from the battle victorious. _And how good it was to see him dead._

Her country freed, Say’ri had gifted Chrom the gemstone Vert. Their fortunes, it seemed, had turned.

And then she ruined it.

Robin should have known better than to step foot in Plegia. And yet, was it obligation? Curiosity? She felt compelled to return, to confront the man who claimed to be her father and the woman who shared her face. She thought she had planned sufficiently. She had predicted Validar’s subterfuge and had charted their path to escape. They had easily shaken off the Plegian guards that rushed to intercept them.

But she had not planned for this.

Again, the limb-numbing pain. Robin felt the scream in her throat, but there was no sound, only a ringing in her ears. Validar was standing right in front of them, and she needed to move, to help Chrom. But her body was not her own.

_It never was._

She wrestled the Fire Emblem from Chrom, and the worst part was that he didn’t even fight back. Although she was not stronger than him. Although he could have easily struck her down. But he didn’t. She would never forget the shock and hurt on his face. She would never forgive herself for it.

Somehow, he did.

“The deed is done. But you can still try to undo the damage. It’s not too late!”

Robin promised she would try. She owed him that that much. But it felt false to promise him anything. Chrom may have trusted her, but she didn’t.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Frederick shifted on the bedroll. It was late and they were exhausted, but neither of them could sleep. Robin could feel him staring at her through the darkness of their tent. She could not bring herself to look at him.

“What would you have me say?” he finally asked.

“That you were right about me.”

She listened to him inhale, then exhale. A steady, deliberate sound. She could hear the tension in it.

“I don’t think that,” he said. “Not anymore.”

“Why not?” There was an ache in her chest, like a creature trying to burrow its way out. Her true nature, perhaps. Revealing itself at last, claws first. “You were right not to trust me. I betrayed him, just like you predicted.”

“It was not your doing.”

“But it happened by my hand.”

Even as she spoke, Robin could not deny the faint triumph that underlay her guilt. And she wanted so badly to believe Frederick, that there was a meaningful difference between who she was and what she’d done. But how could she, when this was what she felt?

“I could have killed him,” Robin said, and suddenly she could feel Chrom’s blood oily on her fingertips, could smell the brightness of his burnt flesh. “If Validar had willed it, I could have…It would have been easy. He didn’t even fight back. If I lose control again, next time, I—”

“You will not kill him.”

“How can you know that?” She could feel her despair hardening into frustration. Her months of doubt were finally resolved. No more guessing or worrying. It had happened. She _was_ the problem. “How can you trust me after this?”

He was silent for a while. When he finally spoke, his words were terse.

“Earlier, you told Chrom that we should abandon you. Did you mean it?”

“At the time, yes.”

“And now?”

Robin hesitated, and Frederick sat up, small sound of his body thunderous. He was actually angry, she realized. He was quick to sarcasm, to dry irritation, but rarely to anger.

He was seething.

Of course he was. She had considered leaving him, of leaving their son, whose only memories in the world were of her. It was another betrayal, and this time it was personal.

Robin waited for him to turn his anger on her. She was disappointed. He inhaled, exhaled. Then he lay back down.

“No,” he said.

“No?”

“You want me to condemn you.” His voice was a cold whisper. “I won’t indulge you in that.”

Indignation filled her throat with needles.

“I’m only saying what’s true.”

“Are you? I don’t think you are. I think you’re saying what hurts. They are not the same.”

“But I betrayed him!” she insisted. “Don’t you blame me?”

“No.”

“Why not?!”

“Because I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “You don’t deserve that, even if you think you do.”

His anger had not melted, but there was a gentleness folded into it. She felt the back of his fingers brush against her arm. She flinched, but there was no pain, no visions of blood.

“I love you, Robin.”

She shut her eyes so tight she could see the darkness swimming behind them.

“Don’t,” she begged.

“We all love you,” Frederick continued. “And we haven’t given up on you yet, so you cannot give up on yourself. Don’t you dare.”

“I can’t be worth this.”

“That is not for only you to decide.”

Robin’s fists tightened around the sheets. They were just words, easy enough to say. Still, she felt saved. She felt like she was falling. To hear him accept her, to put his faith in her despite everything, was more terrifying than death. She couldn’t bear to let him down again. She didn’t think she would survive it.

“I’m not strong enough,” she whispered.

“You will be. You will think of a way out of this.”

“I…”

“You promised Chrom that you would try to fix this,” he said. “Will you promise me the same? No more talk of leaving us. Please.”

Robin opened her eyes. She turned to look at him, pushing through her hesitation. Hardly any light filtered through the tent, but she could just see the outline of his face. She let her hand find his in the darkness. His fingers were a little cold.

“I promise.”

_Promise? How quaint._

“If you hold any love for Chrom, then let this be done!”

Lucina’s eyes were resolve-hardened. How many battles had those eyes seen? How much death? Enough to know what must be done. One life to save thousands—it was easy math.

So this was what it was to stare down Falchion’s steel. It was almost nostalgic. Dusk was settling around them, the cold voice of crickets ringing in the tall grass. The landscape shot with gold. Falchion, too, appeared golden. A sword of light fending off the fast-approaching darkness.

This was it, then. Judgment.

Robin swallowed, her throat dry. Her thoughts were scattered and threadbare. Briefly, she considered the weight of her tome at her side, its pages practically humming with lethal magic. But mostly she felt a quiet sense of peace. Vindication, too. Finally, here was someone who saw her for the threat she was. Someone whose hand would not be slowed by love or pity.

_Strike her down! Do it now; quickly!_

No, Robin thought. She didn’t think she would.

It would have been so easy to let things end there. To push the murder from her mind and hold herself empty long enough for Falchion to fall upon her. Lucina had offered a painless death, and Robin trusted her to deliver. What a relief it would be to be finished with this. To know she could hurt no one else.

And yet, no matter how appealing it was, it was the one choice Robin was not allowed to make. She had promised.

“I do love Chrom,” Robin said. “I would lay down my life for him.”

“Do you accept, then?”

“I cannot.”

“I see.” Lucina narrowed her eyes. “Then draw your sword.”

Fortunately, she didn’t have to. Fortunately, Chrom was there to stop them. It was an abundance of good luck, and yet Robin felt ashamed as she stood by and watched Chrom scold his daughter. She always needed him to stand up for her, to smooth over the problems she caused.

Her head was pounding. She squeezed her hand into a fist. Relaxed it. Made a fist again. If Lucina’s guess was right, then she had killed Chrom in the future. Robin believed it easily. Every time she looked at Chrom, she felt something deadly sharpening within herself. Honing her into an even more terrible weapon.

He turned back to look at her, and there was so much trust in his eyes it made her teeth hurt.

Fine. She would be a weapon, the sharpest and deadliest of them all. But _she_ would choose where to strike—no harm would come to him, from herself or otherwise. She would fix this. She would kill anything to do so.

“This is not your fault.”

She stood over his body, hands shaking, magic crackling in the air around her. In her chest, a floating feeling, as if her heart had become dislodged from its place behind her ribs. She could hear Validar’s laughter, but the noise was distant. Dream-like.

“Idiot,” she hissed, mouth curling into a smile. But her father was gloating too loudly to hear.

The trap closed, wire catching on the neck of the rabbit who thought he was a hawk. Basilio and Flavia arrived just in time for her to snatch her senses back from Validar. In time for her to run her sword through his gut. His blood was hot and dark on her hands. Magic would have been cleaner. But she didn’t want his death to be clean.

_This was what you wanted me to be_ , she thought as she pulled her blade from his gurgling body. He should have known better than to show his hand to her before. He should have killed her when he had the chance. She was made to be a god, wasn’t she? If she was the dragon, then here were her jaws.

But she wasn’t the dragon. Not really. Not this time.

It wasn’t a surprise to hear her stolen body declare what she was. Grima. Chrom’s murderer. Not a surprise, but a thrill nevertheless, the fine hair on her arms and the back of her neck all standing up. A new viciousness rising gleefully through her.

“It was _you_!”

It was her.

Here was an answer to the voices. The dreams. Everything clicking into place.

The situation was bad and getting worse; Grima gorging herself on the lives of her faithful and erupting into her true body. The Fell Dragon, awakened at last.

But even as they fled the castle, Robin felt herself grinning. Chrom had lived. He’d lived, and the Fire Emblem was heavy in her arms. And yes, the dragon was big as a mountain and terrible as a thousand storms. Of course it would be. It had been kicking around in her head for months, and she knew that whatever shape it took would be horrible. But finally, here was something with a face.

Here was something she could kill.

Chrom was engulfed by Naga’s flame, but it did not consume him. The divine dragon descended. Falchion’s true power awakened.

It wasn’t enough.

“Are you alright?”

She almost didn’t hear Frederick’s question over the sound of hoofbeats, the steady rumble of the convoy. It surprised her, too. He didn’t usually care for conversation while riding.

“I’m fine,” Robin said, and for once she meant it. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so clear. There were no voices in her head, and she felt at home in her body again. Whatever destruction Grima was wrecking must have been more important than meddling with her thoughts. It was a silver lining in a hurricane, but a silver lining nonetheless.

But Frederick wasn’t really looking at her. He was staring ahead, but not at the road. She followed his gaze to Origin Peak, its silhouette black against the bloodshot sky.

“Are _you_ alright?” she asked.

“It is a relief to have Naga’s strength on our side,” he said after some thought. It was close enough to an answer, and they rode a while in silence. Robin patted her horse on the neck. How solid she felt. How alive and strong.

A voice cut through the air. Robin craned her neck to see the warm puffs of Morgan and Cynthia’s laughter as Nah indignantly tried to shush them. They were too far up to column for her to make out their banter. Still, Robin found herself smiling. It had been a long time since she had felt so gently.

She loved this world, she realized. Her head had been so full of noise and pain these past few months that she’d hardly been able to see past her own nose. Now, from the back of her horse, the world had seemed to unfold itself around her. The season was teetering on the edge of winter, about to plunge. No snow yet, and still the landscape seemed drenched with cold. Cold earth and stones along the path. Cold bare branches. Cold sweet smell of dying undergrowth. How stark it all was, frightening and uncertain. This world, which held everything that had ever hurt her, as well as everyone who had ever loved her. It was very, very beautiful.

She would not stand by and watch it burn. Not ever.

“A thousand years,” Frederick said suddenly. He was frowning so deeply it looked painful. “Should everything go as planned, that is what we win. A thousand years.”

“That’s what Naga said, yes.”

He nodded, then shook his head.

“I suppose I had thought…I had expected something…”

“More?”

“Permanent.”

“Grima _can_ be killed,” Robin insisted, trying to soothe the despair from his voice. But he shook his head again.

“It is not within Naga’s power.”

“But it’s possible. She said so herself.”

Frederick didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t look like he wanted to argue against Naga’s word, either. He was silent, his jaw clenched, eyes forward. Robin watched him carefully, but his thoughts were unfathomable.

“I’ve caused you a lot of trouble recently,” she said.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said reflexively.

“I’m not.”

That got his attention. He was looking at her now, his worry giving way to curiosity.

“I wanted to thank you,” she continued. “For being patient with me. I know I’ve been difficult these past months.”

“I’m not sure ‘difficult’ is the word I’d use,” he said gently. “But, well. You’re welcome.”

“I love you.” Robin spoke so quickly the words felt windy in her mouth. “I really, really love you.”

He hesitated slightly, suspicion creasing his brow. But it passed. He smiled.

“I feel the same.”

She breathed in deep and held the cold air in her lungs. It stung.

“I want to see your hometown,” she said abruptly.

“What?”

“You grew up in the country, right? Let’s go there together when all of this is over, you, me, and Morgan. I want to see the place that knew you when you were young.”

Her voice sounded tinny and bright. She was gripping the reins so hard her fingers ached. But Frederick didn’t notice.

“I…suppose it would be nice to visit,” he mused. “There isn’t much to see, but the mountains are quite lovely in the winter. It’s quiet.”

“I’d like that,” Robin said, beaming.

That wasn’t exactly a lie. She _would_ have liked to see the mountains with him. She wanted to see the house he’d grown up in, to meet the brother he’d mentioned on rare occasion. She wanted it so badly that for a moment she could imagine herself standing ankle deep in snow, the mountains and trees rising high around her, and the scent of a wood fire on the air. Then the moment passed.

No, it would not happen. Not if things went according to her plan.

She was a vessel. When Validar had told her that, she had imagined herself as a flowerpot. Expertly crafted, but inert. Dead clay and pretty glaze. Existing to hold something else. He had probably thought the same. The few times they had met, he’d never spoken to her like a real person. She hadn’t _felt_ like a real person.

But she was, wasn’t she? Despite everything. Because of everything.

Validar hadn’t understood that. He hadn’t thought a flowerpot would disobey him. He was dead now.

Would Grima understand that? Robin doubted it. Like Validar, the dragon was arrogant. How comforting fate was to the strong. Grima could languish in her power, believing it absolute and self-justifying. Which meant she wouldn’t see a flowerpot as a threat until it was too late. 

Because here was the thing about being a vessel that no one seemed to understand—she was made to withstand Grima’s power. Which meant she could withstand Grima’s power.

Robin was going to kill a god.

“Promise me you won’t do this,” Chrom begged.

She promised.

She was a liar.

She withstood Grima’s power, but barely. Now she was pinned down, gnashing her teeth in the dark. Dying, probably, and she hadn’t landed a single blow.

_What did you think you could accomplish with that stunt?_

A boot on the back of her head, pressing her deeper into the darkness.

_You thought completing the Awakening would help you? That his splinter of a sword would make a difference?_

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t fight. All she could do was rage pathetically, blood curdling in the back of her throat.

_It would all be over if you stop struggling._

“I’ll kill you!”

The dragon chuckled with a voice full of scales.

_There it is. That pretty violence of yours. Do you remember how good it felt to kill your prince? Or your husband? Do you remember what it felt like when their lives expired in your hands? We’ll experience it again. Together._

Her words fell upon her, sweet as acid. Then a sharp pain, as if her muscles were being torn from the bone. She screamed, but the sound was swallowed.

She was going to die. She was going to die. There it went, the bottom of her cracking like thin, brittle slate. She choked on the pain, trembling, and the rage that had carried her all this way could do nothing for her now. She was weak.

_That’s right. Let go._

She could feel divinity entering her, Grima’s will muddying her mind. It was so loud. Centuries of despair and rage beamed through her head, and what was she compared to that? A candle to a forest fire. But no, not right. No comparison, because there was no distinction. A fire is a fire. A dragon is a dragon. She is Grima. She _has always been_ Grima.

“Fight back!”

She is Grima.

“Fight back!”

She is Grima.

“ **Fight back!** ”

She is…no.

She is Robin.

It was like being gripped by the sun. One moment there was only pain and the crushing weight of the dragon upon her. And then it shifted. The pain was still there, but there was something else. Something gentle and furious blazing through her heart. For a shining moment, it was enough. She ripped herself from Grima’s thrall and felt the dragon’s disbelief. Robin grinned.

“Your turn to die.”

Suddenly she was standing on the dragon’s back among the Shepherds again. Suddenly they were cloaked with Naga’s grace. Here was the ash-bitten sky, and here was Grima, wearing her stolen face. She looked affronted. She looked scared.

They were going to win.

Of course, Grima didn’t make it easy. She summoned her legions to stand in their way. It was an ugly fight. Their strategy, if any, was to cut their way through, and the Shepherds did so valiantly. They cleared the way for Chrom to advance, the Falchion bearing down on Grima like fangs. Did it unnerve him to strike someone who looked so much like her? If it did, he didn’t show it. Again and again his blade found purchase, and although the dragon’s attacks were fierce, her arrogance had slipped. They had cut her off from her reinforcements, and her own blood was pooling at her feet.

For all her talk, she didn’t look like a god. She looked mortal.

“Now’s our chance! I’m going to finish this!”

Chrom looked every part the hero. Though bloodied and exhausted, his sword was poised to strike the darkness from the world. He gave her a smile full of confidence. She smiled back.

She pushed him.

Confusion passed over his face as he fell. Then the terrible realization of what she’d done. Robin recognized that look—she had dreamt of it countless times. She thought he would forgive her, however. He always had.

The truth was that she didn’t want to die anymore. She wanted to grow old with the people she loved. She wanted to feel the monotony of time upon her bones, the little joys and boredoms of life.

But she couldn’t live with herself knowing Grima would return, either.

So in that sense, it wasn’t a sacrifice. Not for her.

Lighting flew from her fingertips and Grima screamed, staggered. She glared at her, murderous and ineffectual.

“You…wouldn’t dare…!”

Robin laughed. She felt as if her mouth were full of blood. Not hers.

“I would and I will. Did you really think it could be otherwise? Did you honestly think that after everything you’ve done to me, the hell you put me through, that I wouldn’t jump at the chance to kill you?”

A second charge of lighting crackled in her hand. Grima was growing more desperate.

“Don’t be stupid! It’ll kill you, too!”

“For all the time you spent in my head, you really don’t understand anything about me.”

The second blast of magic pierced Grima, and Robin felt a cold ripple of shock through her own body. Then a numbness that was almost like peace. She watched as Grima’s body shuddered with death, then as it crumbled into ash, its darkness scattered across the bright sky. With the last of her strength, Grima raised her face to her. Her own face, full of relief.

Then she was gone.

She was gone, and Robin was fading, her own body turning to ash. It was painless, like falling asleep. And she was so tired. She had been for a long time.

This was the end, then. There were so many promises she couldn’t keep, so many goodbyes she hadn’t said. Frederick and Morgan were at the rear of the column. She had wanted to protect them from the dragon’s jaws, but mostly she hadn’t wanted them to see this. Was that selfish of her? Was it more selfish to want them with her now?

But she wasn’t alone. Chrom was by her side, talking to her. She couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, but he seemed pained. In the end, she had managed to hurt him one last time. Robin tried to comfort him, tried to tell him that it would be alright. Perhaps not today, but someday. Someday there would be a clear day in spring. A field dotted with purple asters, the scent of earth and new grass low on the air. But she could not feel the words on her lips. She could not feel his hands trying in vain to hold her. She was with him. She was far away.

The sky was so bright.

_“Welcome back. It’s over now.”_

**Author's Note:**

> anyway, i'm @ CottonPrima on twitter if you want to find me.


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